Diana: death of a goddess
David Cohen Century, 263pp, £16.99
ISBN 184413590X
Seven years ago, the life of Diana, Princess of Wales neared its brutal end within a mangled Mercedes in an underpass in Paris. Since then several books have been written in an attempt to explain the cause of the tragedy two of which I read soon after their publication. I devoured Thomas Sancton and Scott MacLeod's Death of a Princess too early, as I had been brainwashed both by newspaper accounts rubbishing Mohamed Al Fayed and by those rumours of something infinitely more sinister than an accident caused by a driver over the drink limit. The Bodyguard's Story, told by Trevor Rees-Jones, was so News of the World in style that I couldn't take it seriously. It has a quotation on the back: ". . . this book offers that rare pleasure, that of seeing the underdog bite back". As Rees-Jones suffered horrific facial injuries, one can only wonder whose teeth were doing the biting.
Diana died in the small hours of 31 August 1997, some say in the ambulance, some say at the hospital. She and Dodi Fayed had taken supper at the Ritz Hotel and were being driven to Dodi's apartment by Henri Paul, chief security officer at the Ritz. Rees-Jones was sitting in front and was apparently the car's only occupant wearing a seat belt. The final verdict of the subsequent police investigation was that Henri Paul had lost control of the car because he was intoxicated by drink or drugs, or both.
In Diana: death of a goddess, David Cohen examines evidence made public at the time and uncovers much that was deliberately concealed. He supplies information without resorting to sensationalism and poses questions, rather than making accusations. Why did it take so long for Diana to be taken to hospital? Why was the tunnel cleared of debris and hosed down within an hour or so of the ambulance having left? Why was Henri Paul going such a long way round to Dodi's apartment in the rue Arsene-Houssaye? And what lies behind the mystery of the white Fiat Uno that was sighted driving away from the Mercedes as it began its fatal skid in the Alma Tunnel? At the time, the notion of another car having been seen was denied. Only later was it revealed that fragments of white paint belonging to such a vehicle had been found at the scene. Cohen gives a riveting account of the man behind the wheel and of his macabre death three years later.
The driver was a French photographer called Jean-Paul Gonin, who changed his name to James Andanson upon marrying an Englishwoman. At 11.30am on 4 May 2000, Andanson told his wife that he was going to post some letters and then drive to Lille to photograph the politician Martine Aubry. The police version is that he drove into the town of Millau, about 600 kilometres south of his farm at Lignieres. He then bought a can of petrol and in his BMW - the old and battered Fiat had long been sold to his mother-in-law and dumped in a garage - he drove north to the Plateau du Larzac. In a field, he poured 40 litres of petrol over the car and himself, fastened his seat belt and lit a match. The official procedure, once Andanson was found dead, was similar to that for the Alma crash: no inquest, just an inquiry that concluded in June 2000 with the lady judge dismissing the notion of murder and ruling it suicide.
Cohen's book is a good read and goes a long way towards raising doubts over the official version of the death of a princess.
Beryl Bainbridge's most recent novel is According to Queeney (Abacus)
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